


The Application of Practical Physics

by Siria



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College, Community: mcsmooch, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-05
Updated: 2007-10-05
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:40:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The library at night is quiet and dim, the still air carrying no sound with it, just the smell of paper and dust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Application of Practical Physics

**Author's Note:**

> For Cate.

The library at night is quiet and dim, the still air carrying no sound with it, just the smell of paper and dust. It's just the way Rodney likes it; no disturbances from the chattering undergrads, no hurrying feet on the stairs between classes, no glares from the other postgrads whose work he's torn apart in that day's seminar.

It's just Rodney and his desk, his wall of text books and a pad of paper, the black pen (for scribbling out the lines and forms and equations that will be the backbone of his thesis), the red pen (for writing rude comments in the margins of his text books, the ones that will make the librarians glare at him the next day even though they have absolutely no conclusive proof). He can think well up here in his little nook, no annoying room-mate, no distraction from computer or caffeine or Teyla's yoga class practising on the green outside his dorm room window; he can think well, and sink into his thoughts, parsing out the architecture of Minkowski space time, building ways to get to other worlds in his head, forget all about this one, dream of spires that are blue and green and gold—which is why the breath on the nape of his neck, the whispered "Whatcha doing?" makes him leap, startled.

Rodney rolls his eyes without looking around and tries to focus his attention back on his work, because he knows that voice and nothing good can come of paying attention to its suggestions; but it's hard to ignore, what with John breathing on his neck, the warmth that Rodney can feel emanating from him even through his button down shirt and his long sleeved t-shirt. _Which implies_, Rodney forces himself to think, _if this holds true, then that implies_, but his train of thought is gone and he hisses "I'm trying to study, what does it _look_ like?"

He tries to lean back over his books, but his view of the rows of neat, black ink equations are blocked because John's sitting down on his desk, planting his too-skinny ass in its worn jeans right down on top of Rodney's work; and yes, he could try to keep working regardless, but that would involve having to reach... places, and Rodney's really trying not to think about that, even with John's crotch right there in his face.

John ignores Rodney's huffs and ineffectual attempts to get his work back and says "Looks like it's a Friday night and you're in here studying, Rodney. Again. There's a party over at Ford and Lorne's, if you wanna come. Free beer."

Rodney rolls his eyes, because of course, yes, cheap alcohol and drunken, sweaty frat guys hold such charm for him. John pre-empts him before he can open his mouth and says "I can also guarantee that there'll be at least a half dozen cheerleaders, Rodney. Blondes. Tiny skirts. All... pneumatic." His hands move through the air, sketching out a female form that seems vastly improbable to Rodney, even with his somewhat limited experience. "C'm'on, Rodney. It's college. Live a little; what do you say?"

Just for a moment, Rodney's kind of tempted. John's smile is open and the invitation seems genuine; his dark hair is flopping into his eyes and really, he's not exactly the worst person Rodney's ever had to share a dorm room with—he'd even consider them friends—but then he thinks back to the prospect of a seminar on Monday morning, a seminar where he mightn't have enough work done to show up his lecturer's complete inadequacy again, and he shakes his head.

"I have far too much work to get done to waste my time on being a college student," he says, standing up and stalking off into the stacks, as much in search of a respite from John as he is in search of new material. "You go on, have fun, I'll see you tomorrow. Or whenever."

He heads down one dark row of books, trailing his hands along their spines. Maybe Simms would have something useful he could use? Or Zhang have something he could disprove... And he's just starting to get lost again in thoughts of physics when he hears someone walking behind him, swift footsteps and almost silent, an impatient whine of "_Rod_ney."

And Rodney knows that tone of voice intimately, _hates_ that tone of voice, stops and stands there in the middle of the aisle and lets his head hang forward. "What," he grinds out flatly. "What is it now? I said I am not going to that stupid party, so if you'd just—"

"No, no, s'okay," John says, shrugging one shoulder. "I just wanted—well, we could do something else if you wanted? There's a _Star Wars_ marathon on at the movie theatre in town. We could go."

Rodney looks at him. "You have both trilogies on DVD already."

"Yeah."

"And the first trilogy on VHS, original and remastered."

"Yeah." John ducks his head, and Rodney doesn't know if it's a trick of the dim light or if John's actually _blushing._

"And you still want to go see them in the theatre. With me. Instead of going to a party with all your ROTC buddies and getting drunk and ending up with your face pillowed in the cleavage of some cheerleader called Kimberly."

"Yeah," John says, tilting his head back to stare at the dark and distant ceiling. "Kind of. Though the idea's starting to lose its charm."

"Why?" Rodney says, suddenly suspicious; it's not like college has been anything like the hell of junior high, but the memories of having his head flushed down the toilet have never _quite_ faded, and there's a kneejerk reaction at an offer like this, of friendship or something like it. He doesn't know quite how to deal with it, how to approach it.

"Why would you want to—" He clears his throat. "With me, I mean."

John looks back at him, stares him straight in the eye, and for just a moment, Rodney can't quite catch his breath. He's seen John in every kind of a mood over the past couple of months, ever since John showed up in the doorway of their room the first day of classes, duffle slung over his shoulder and a surfboard tucked under one arm—he's seen him shy and cocky, ironic and amused and genuinely angry; seen him drunk and hungover and vibrating with energy after a whole day spent blowing off classes, finding a clearer description of the laws of engineering in the rip and curl of waves beneath his surfboard than in anything his professors could write up on a whiteboard.

He's never seen John look this serious

"I just—" John breaks off, tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. "I just wanted—" and then he breaks off, low sound in the back of his throat like he's frustrated. And then he takes one step forward, and another, and Rodney can feel that sound like he's made it himself, like it's his own, because John has stepped right up to him and taken his face in his hands and god, jesus, he's kissing him, hot and wet and needy, the slowest kind of frantic Rodney's ever known, tongue stroking into Rodney's mouth, curling around his and stroking light and delicate against the roof of Rodney's mouth. "That," he breathes eventually when he pulls away, resting his forehead against Rodney's, panting gently, "_You_."

"I," Rodney says intelligently. "Um." His lips are tingling, and he has to fight the urge to reach up and touch his own mouth; he has the feeling he's smiling like an idiot.

John's eyes are closed, little frownline between his eyebrows, like he's waiting for Rodney to yell at him or back away or be disgusted—as if Rodney would, as if he'd—oh, all this time it was _flirting_, he sees—he reaches out with his hand and touches John's cheek, loving the way John pushes instinctively into the touch before he even opens his eyes. "Rodney," he says, a little dazedly, and Rodney takes advantage of that, pushes so that his knee is wedged warm and comfortable between John's thighs, so that the bookshelves are all that's holding them up, so that John's pressed right up against Rodney, chest to belly to hips, "what are you—"

"Shh," Rodney says, leaning in, smile broadening; because he knows a genius idea when he sees one, even if he didn't come up with it himself, and this one, oh this one has _such_ potential. "Shh," he says, leaning in, coaxing John's mouth open again, loving the feel of stubble under his tongue, learning the line of John's lower lip, "how many times do I have to tell you? Quiet when I'm trying to study."


End file.
